


3:34 am

by wellthatsood



Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: s01e03 The Possibilities, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 20:40:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7403299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthatsood/pseuds/wellthatsood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fiore isn't used to the concept of pain; DeBlanc attempts to fix things. </p><p>Set after episode 1x03: The Possibilities</p>
            </blockquote>





	3:34 am

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crimsonxflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonxflowers/gifts).



> Inspired by [this post](http://meyerlansky.tumblr.com/post/145940888621/so-on-a-completely-different-topic-guess-how-much) and [this image](https://67.media.tumblr.com/28cd6b54f393c9e1a87e69cd1b59a3c6/tumblr_o9frgosbGB1vx72lxo6_1280.png) because I’m pretty sure that’s masking tape on his hand and the angels don’t know a damn thing about first aid.

Fiore had not said a word about what happened—or failed to happen—that night. DeBlanc, it seemed, had either not noticed, or was simply filling the silence with commentary of his own in the absence of input from Fiore. 

It had been a mostly quiet ride back from the church. “Progress,” DeBlanc said, as ink-blue darkness blurred past the window. “We’re making progress.” Fiore’s knuckles were clenched around the steering wheel.

As they arrived at the motel, DeBlanc set the can onto the nightstand with a noticeably hollow _thunk_. There might have been something affectionate in the way his eyes lingered on it. “At least we’ve got this back,” he said like it was some sort of victory. But they’d both heard the echo of its emptiness, resonant and mocking. Fiore sat down on the edge of the bed, facing the opposite direction. He didn’t want to look at the can.

“We’re making alliances,” DeBlanc continued, roving the room. He took off his hat and set it on the table. Fiore watched his shadow passing back and forth, drifting through the warm light cast by the lamp in the corner. “It’ll get us closer to the preacher. We can get what we came for. We may even be able to reach an _understanding_ before this gets any further out of hand.”

Shadow crossing to the closet. DeBlanc removing his jacket and hanging it up. Shadow turning. Shadow to the far corner. Shadow returning. “Any step closer to completing the mission is a success—” Shadow stopping. The tips of DeBlanc’s shoes were at the rim of Fiore’s vision—clean leather, new, not a thing like the two identical pairs of shoes, covered in blood and dirt on bodies that didn’t move anymore.

“You’re bleeding,” DeBlanc said, both a statement and a question, a note of surprise tacked onto the observation.

Fiore raised both his eyes and his hand, lightly brushing the tips of his fingers over his temple. It had been stinging and throbbing all night, a dull pounding that pulsed and pulsed and didn’t stop. It didn’t compare to what he’d felt before. The memory of whirring blades slicing clean through bone lingered at the back of his mind; the sudden, speeding weight plowing through his body was an unfortunately fresh memory. But those had been brief. Short and unbearably agonizing, but then it was over. This wasn’t over. Why wasn’t it over?

He pulled his hand away and looked down at his fingers. They were wet and shining red. He stared at them, made only a noise of vague recognition, and still did not look at DeBlanc.

But DeBlanc kept on. “Hold on,” he said with a note of brightness that Fiore felt was out of place, given the situation. “I know what to do. I think we’ve got just the thing to fix it.”

Fiore remained stationary, one hand braced on his knee, the other palm up as it continued to throb. His head pounded—or maybe it was just the sound of DeBlanc rummaging through their things. The pain seemed to be everywhere at once, in his head, behind his eyes, even twisted into a tight knot in his stomach. The cut in his hand radiated up through his arm, twisting and gnawing and ghosting across his shoulder until he swore he could feel the chainsaw cutting into it. But that was a different body, and yet the memory of it lingered. It wasn’t just a _feeling_ ; it seemed to live in him, a twinge of hurt that thrummed a steady staccato with each passing second. Was it just part of this body now? Was pain not supposed to stop? 

DeBlanc returned a moment later and Fiore, finally, looked at him. “We should start with your head first,” DeBlanc announced with as much confidence as he had about their newfound alliance. It was difficult to tell if he knew more about this than Fiore or just pretended he did. “We’ll need to clean it and patch it up.”

“Patch it up?” Fiore repeated, because that didn’t sound like the sort of thing that would be very pleasant. His voice was low, scratchy; he couldn’t remember the last thing he’d said.

DeBlanc nodded without seeming to really hear him, handing Fiore something before he disappeared into the bathroom. Fiore could hear the sound of running water as he turned the small plastic object over in his hand. It had a small jagged lip and something clear and sticky stretched taut against it. “ _Scotch tape_ ,” he mouthed, examining the label.

“Right, chin up,” DeBlanc instructed as he returned. Fiore did as he was told and instantly, he felt something cool and wet against his forehead.

Fiore sat perfectly still, perched on the edge of the bed. Between his knees, DeBlanc stood right up against him. Like this, they were almost the same height. There wasn’t much for Fiore to look at except the expanse of DeBlanc’s chest. He could see the stitches holding the buttons to the fabric, the even rise and fall of his breath, the black chords still fastened tight against his throat.

He turned, ever so slightly, to instead watch the clock on the table. The brightly illuminated numbers shone steadily.

 _3:34_.

“I think it’s a good tactic,” DeBlanc continued, diligently dabbing at Fiore’s head. He ignored Fiore’s occasional wince as the damp, coarse towel scrubbed against the gouge.

_3:35._

“Proper negotiations may be just what we need. The preacher complies, we get what we came for, and there’s no need for any further incidents.” DeBlanc paused, tutted, and wrapped a separate section of towel around his fingers. He traced over the wound in slow, careful motions, following the long cuts across Fiore’s head.

But it didn’t stop the pounding. It just kept stinging, a fresh little twinge every time DeBlanc’s fingers found his skin. And still he kept talking, explaining the advantages, the benefits, the accomplishments of their night. He paused only to ask Fiore to pass the tape. He obliged. DeBlanc tore off strips against the metal teeth and placed them over the cuts, running his finger back and forth to seal it in place. Fiore’s hiss of disapproval went unheard.

_3:36._

“We’re getting closer and before you know it—”

“You said this would help!” Fiore shouted.

DeBlanc froze, took a half-step back, and Fiore chanced looking at him, standing there stunned with a frown on his forehead as deep as on his lips. “Help?” he just repeated, the certainty gone from his voice. The language of the situation was lost to them both.

“You _said_ —” Fiore accused, jabbing his finger at the blood-spotted towel dangling from DeBlanc’s hand, “—you said it would help, you said you’d fix it!”

DeBlanc glanced down at the roll of tape. “I—”

“But you didn’t! You didn’t! It hurts, it still hurts, why does it still hurt?” He didn’t know who he demanded the answers from, but there was no one he could ask, no one to be accountable but DeBlanc. They were on their own and there was no one— _no one_ —who could tell him.

“Everything we do here, it just hurts! This whole planet is just— _hurt_! We’ve gone all over, we still don’t have what we came for, and all we did tonight was get killed _again_ and who knows how many more times, and I’m—” He paused for breath, exhaled, and with it left all of the strength of his shouting.

“I’m tired, DeBlanc,” he finished, meeker than he’d started. “I’m tired. I want to go _home_.”

They stayed in silence, except for the low hum of the air conditioner. DeBlanc remained motionless, though Fiore couldn’t say what he looked like or what expression he wore. He could only feel his gaze, as Fiore refused to turn in his direction. The clock glowed 3:42 by the time anyone spoke again.

“Your hand,” DeBlanc finally said, in a voice low enough to be a whisper, but too uncertain at the edges to hold the same softness.

“My what?”

“Your hand,” DeBlanc repeated. This time it was softer. “Let me?”

Fiore glanced down. The side of his hand was still red and raw, gouged open in shielding the blows that hadn’t fallen on his face. He swallowed and nodded and listened as DeBlanc again retreated to the bathroom.

When he returned, DeBlanc sat beside him, the mattress creaking beneath his weight. He held out his own hand—flat, broad palm turned up in a silent plea—and Fiore set his damaged hand into it.

DeBlanc was wordless, careful in his diligence, as he pressed a wad of damp toilet paper against the wound. Slowly, testing Fiore’s reaction, he applied a gentle pressure with the heel of his hand. DeBlanc’s fingers curved over Fiore's hand, barely settling on skin. It was a ghost of a touch, a wisp of warmth. Soon he didn't seem to feel the pain at all; it was just a twinge, buried beneath damp pressure. 

The clock turned to 3:51; Fiore turned to DeBlanc.

“Is that any better?” DeBlanc asked in a hush.

He answered with one short nod.

“This won’t keep happening,” DeBlanc said. It lacked his earlier confidence, but Fiore believed it more. His words were gentle, more promise than statement. Fiore nodded again in silent agreement, in acceptance.

The rip of tape against metal teeth tore their silence. DeBlanc examined the thin clear strip, frowning as he tried to angle it against the side of Fiore’s hand. “You know, I think we might have a better option.”

Fiore kept his eyes on DeBlanc as he moved across the room, thoughtful in his search, a contemplative dip in his brow. He returned shortly with a roll of tan tape; Fiore offered his hand without being asked.

DeBlanc crouched onto one knee, keeping his balance with an arm propped on Fiore’s leg. Gingerly, he held the wad of toilet paper—stained fresh with blood and blossoming—in place with just the tip of a finger. His other hand was busy setting long strips of tape against it. His work was more careful this time, and soon the wound was covered.

“Better?” DeBlanc asked. 

Fiore contemplated his hand, turning it over and inspecting the lines of tape as they crossed over his skin. The aching sting had started to abate, bit by bit. The pounding lingered in his head, but even that seemed duller than it had been. Maybe—he reasoned—pain wasn’t permanent. 

“Better,” Fiore confirmed.


End file.
